Corpses
by Conrack
Summary: Both had their families ripped from them. Both have cleaved a long and bloody path through the New York underground. Now, both are in prison, and they’re sharing a cell. A Max Payne-Punisher crossover
1. Prologue

Disclaimer:

I hate disclaimers; they're just so lame. If I owned these things, it wouldn't be posted at a FAN FICTION site fer cryin' out loud! Is it a rule here that disclaimers are necessary? Doesn't the name give a hint? Has anybody here ever been sued? Hands up.

…

Thought so.

Sigh

Oh well, here goes:

Remedy owns Max Payne, Marvel owns Frank Castle and I own my imagination.

And there you have it folks, this will be the only disclaimer you'll see, so don't forget it. ;)

A fair warning; this story contains foul language and some pretty graphic violence; so if that offends you, I strongly advise you to leave.

Of not, then sit back and enjoy the fireworks… ;)

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**-Corpses-**

By Steen Jung

AKA Conrack

**Part 1: **

**Prologue**

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_Max_

They were all dead…

Again…

Woden, Vlad, Mona…

Mona…

The last, frayed string that had held on to my sanity…

Mona…

Like when the first tragedy of my life had came crashing down upon me, I could feel my brain trying not to do like an overheated computer; shutting down completely.

The staccato of camera flashes hit me like a point-blank shot to the face, the heavy downpour felt like a ton of bricks on my shoulders, and with the media screaming and howling at me like rabid bloodhounds, this seemed like a pretty good imitation of Dante's inferno.

But my thoughts were not on the sizzling chaos surrounding me, but at an angelic face floating on a sea of dark crimson, gentle eyes looking at me, crying, confessing their love… the same eyes that had seen the deaths of hundreds and never betrayed any emotion…

Mona…

…"_I turned out to be such a damsel in distress"_…

Her final words was a crescendo in my skull, the final piece fallen into place, the final line in the tragicomical play that was my life, and this was where the audience would rise from their chairs and applause.

There was no applause.

The rain expertly camouflaged the tears on my face from the scavenging lenses of the mass media, not that I really cared anymore, my reason for existing had been stripped away like the wrappings of a present on Christmas eve, and now I just felt like a big waste of space, a black hole that should rightfully have been filled by a caring and happy family father.

For the second time this night, the entire story replayed itself behind my eyes, a linear sequence of lies, betrayal and killings with me as the centrepiece, a hurricane of chaos, pain and gun shots surrounding me, threatening to drive me mad.

I saw Vlad. The smiling demon in white Armani, the charming killer who had twisted me around his little finger, until he grew bored with me and decided to crush me in his palm. But unlike him, the lying bastard that he was, I had kept my promise to him. I had given him his gun back. One. Bullet. At a time.

I saw it happen again. I held the polished metal in my hand, and time slowed down as I watched the high-calibre bullets impact on his chest, tearing up organs and Armani alike, the sound of air gushing from his ruined lungs as he stumbled backwards.

"_Max, dearest of all my friends…"_

Even when dying he still clung to the big time gangster act…

"…_I was supposed to be the hero"_

His blood bubbled from his mouth as he forced the final sentence out.

He was no hero. Neither was Mona. Neither was I.

I was never a hero and I never will be. The sign of a true hero is that he always makes the right decisions. He always comes out on top. The cosmic rules of reality bend around them, so that he may make the right choice and still emerge victorious, unscathed and loved.

When I look back I see the choices that I never realised I had made, and I could never tell if they were right or wrong. It bled together, it was never completely wrong, nor was it ever completely right.

Somewhere in the distance I could hear I was being ordered to drop my weapons, so I did. I piled them in front of me in a small mountain of metal, like a memento to all the terrible things I had done. I looked at them. Had I really been carrying all that around? There were enough weapons and ammo there to supply a small army.

But then again, it seemed like that was what I had become. I had overcome the most ludicrous of odds, and it had all been thanks to those weapons and an overzealous trigger-finger.

Some nondescript police officer roughly shoved my into a car, and we sped off, the flashes and screams bled together behind me, and eventually disappeared; making way to a blessed silence as I was taken to my doom…

_Frank_

They were all dead…

The Saints, the Gnuccis, The Russians, Takagi and, most recently, John Saint, or as he was called after I'd re-arranged his face, Jigsaw.

All dead…

But no matter how many I killed, new ones seemed to spew out of nowhere, a new kind of evil spawned every minute, as fast as man could think them up…

It was a wicked circle, a never-ending crusade of death and bloodshed, the gaping maw of a terrible monster lurking in the shadows of my mind, waiting to consume me at every turn. It was what drove me on, stalking the night like a sleek predator looking for its next unknowing prey. For that was what I had become; A ruthless predator with an unquenchable bloodthirst and a very single-minded purpose.

I hated it.

And I loved it.

My training kicked in, and I deftly rolled to the side, hearing bullets impact on the floor where I had been only seconds before.

In one fluid motion I ejected the empty clip from my H&K Mp5 sub-machinegun and inserted a new one, and before the goons following me had a chance to adjust their aim their bodies were riddled with red-hot bullets, tearing through flesh, puncturing organs and caving in craniums. The blood and brains became a grotesque painting on the wall behind them, testimony the efficiency of super-sonic superheated pieces of lead slicing their way through the body, and the lethal skills of The Punisher.

Me

An urban legend come true, the criminals worst nightmare, all the clichés…

It was flatter, I was nothing but a man with blazing guns and an even more blazing hate.

Hiss.

The familiar sound of a bullet screaming past my head, and my body reacted before my mind, sending my flying towards the nearest cover.

I could hear ragged gasps coming closer, an unwitting goon bumbling into his certain death, and before he knew anything a single lethal lead discharge impacted upon his forehead, sending the rest of the cranium exploding out of the back of his head.

I felt someone trying to sneak up on me, but before he knew what had happened, his left eye-socket was greeted by the business-end of a 9-inch buck knife, and before he hit the ground, two more goons were granted some extra ventilation.

That left one. This one was panicking, and judging by the desperate 'click-click-click' he was also out of ammo. I slowly advanced, making sure the little shit saw me. With a roar like a wounded animal, he tried to tackle me with a clumsy manoeuvre. It was almost too easy blasting his nose-bone up his brain with a well-placed palm-hit. He slumped to the ground with a gurgling noise.

Judge, jury and executioner, all in a day's work…

I stood up and surveyed the scene in front of me.

Mangled bodies were laying everywhere, mug-shot faces staring accusingly at me with their lifeless eyes their precious lifeblood decorating floor, walls and furniture alike.

My gaze fixed on a specific body, Thomas Punchinello, eldest son of the late Angelo Punchinello and the one to inherit the family fortune and the title of Don.

Lucky him…

He had moved into the mansion owned by the Punchinello's, recently rebuilt from the ruins it was after the massacre that took place here a few years back, and the Don had really made a name for himself for his ruthlessness and cunning. He had been quick to either get the other families under his banner or out of his way, and he was well on his way to becoming one of New York's most powerful mob bosses.

Lucky him…

I had lured the men of one of the Don's fiercest rivals, Carlo Verlini, into the Dons' territory and, of course, made sure that the Don was tipped about this, and when the warehouse in which the Don stored some of his 'merchandise' became a live-ammo shooting gallery, his mansion was left with fewer men to guard it, and that was when I made my move.

Unlucky him…

I could hear the wail of sirens getting closer like a thousand screams telling me that I should be long gone by now, and I silently cursed my stupidity.

Like a shadow I floated through the bullet-riddled rooms of the house. It was like the lights had gotten a sharper gleam, and the dead eyes of the slain seemed to followed me as I went. I gingerly avoided stepping on the carcasses. Many of them were blown wide open, and it was hard enough to disappear in the city without my clothes being soaked in blood and whatnot.

I made for a window. It was a two-store fall, nothing I hadn't done before, so I slid the window open and let myself fall.

And that was when my luck ended.

A flicker of red caught my eye through the howling wind in my ears and the rapidly ascending ground, and as I threw my body in a roll when I impacted, I knew that the lethal stare of laser-sights were all over me, showing where exactly the bullets would carve themselves into my body, should the guns at the other end decide it.

"Freeze! NYPD!"

I felt relief course through my body. Had the ones in the other end of the laser-sights been anyone else than the cops I would be taking a lead shower by now. They had been on to me like bloodhounds since my spectacular escape from Ryker's three months back. Looks like this was their lucky night.

"Drop your guns and lie face down!"

And so I did. I shred my weapons like a snake would shred its hide, and the sound of metal hitting soaked dirt in a rhythmical patters was the only thing that could be heard.

_Thump!_ The Mp5…

_Thump!_ The sniper rifle…

_Thump-thump!_ The two .45 handguns…

_Thump!_ The sawed-off shotgun…

_Thump-thump-thump!_ Three hand-grenades…

_Thump-thump!_ Two flashbang-grenades…

_Thump-Thump!_ A pair of fist-irons…

_Snikt!_ And a large bowie knife…

The entire SWAT-team stared at me

"Holy shit" One of the younger officers uttered. Grotesque as it sounds, I, a single man, was now intimidating an entire SWAT-team, but I decided not to take any chances, to laid myself face-down in the soaked mud like an obedient citizen.

The masked men exploded into action around me, and like angry bees they buzzed franticly around me, taking my weapons and securing me.

A grizzly of a man hauled me to my feet, and I could almost see him smirking behind his mask. A younger officer ran up to him and whispered something to him, but my sensitive hearing caught it easily; "Sir, it's a real mess inside, at least forty corpses, probably more."

He threw an uneasy glance my way

"The Don's there too, and I think it's safe to assume he's dead; a big chunk of his stomach was missing, like…"

"…he had been shot point blank with a sawed-off" I interrupted the youngster.

I could sense the smile on the grizzly's face had evaporated into the thin air, and they all gave me wide berth as they shoved me into a nearby police car.

I closed my eyes and leaned back in the seat, trying to block out the noises from the outside as I was taken to my doom…

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So, there's the first chapter for you ladies and gentlemen. In this story, The Punisher is based in the new pc-game, so some of the back-story might confuse you if you haven't played it yet. 

And why haven't you played it yet? _DO_ it! It's AWESOME :D


	2. Sharing a cell

**Part 2:**

Two psychos sharing a cell

_Max_

_"I hereby sentence you to capital punishment"_

Whack!

The hammer had slammed into the polished mahogany, putting the last nail in my future coffin.

And here I was: Ryker's island. One of the most secure prisons in the world, looming in the horizon over the coast of Manhattan, like a dark shadow of fear ruining the picture-perfect scenery, constantly reminding the rest of New York what danger the everyday society could bestow upon them.

_"He's here, pass it on"_

The hushed whispers of the inmates dwelling here were haunting me as I was escorted down the soulless cellblocks.

_"He's here, pass it on"_

Their voices reverberated with anger and fear. They were spreading the word. No doubt they all knew who I was, and they were gonna get real bloodthirsty about it.

"_He's here, pass it on"_

The frightened echoes disappeared in the concrete corridors, but the eyes of the monsters followed me like vultures over a soon-to be carcass. And taking my reputation into consideration, it wasn't too far off.

"_He's here, pass it on"_

One thing was certain. From hereon, my life would be anything but peaceful… The monsters lurking in steel-barred crevices here would hunt me day and night, drooling predators smelling blood and wanting to taste the sweetness of my death and win the respect of the others.

At least those who dared… I could discourage them quickly enough.

The guard escorting me was a real piece of work. He was a lanky man with a face like a weasel and a nasty sneer. His long greasy hair was sticking wetly to his skull, shining in the bright halogen lights and the loose strands smacking wetly into his neck and chin in a rhythmic pace as he moved. When I had arrived here, he had been the first to crack some lame joke about my name, and since then, his awful nasal whining had been buzzing in my ear like a fly with a death wish, until I reminded him that since I was on death row, it would make no consequence whatsoever if I offed a guard or two while staying.

That silenced him.

My personal parade escort came to a halt as I stood face-to-face with a man in a similar outfit as me; Blue jeans, white t-shirt and all wrapped in chains like a birthday present from hell.. The weasel opened a cell…

"Well, Payne, this'll be yer home and yer roomie for the rest of yer life…or what's left of it"

As he snickered at his own joke I looked at the man standing in front of me.

He was at least six-foot-five, and had a physique like a brick shithouse. His jet-black hair was slicked back, his square jaw was covered with day-old stubble, he had a nose that looked like it had been broken once too many times, and his deep eyes were icy blue. Glowing with passion, yet strangely dead. He had a terrifying piercing gaze.

Every cop or criminal in America, or anywhere else, for that matter, could recognise this face, and I was no exception. I almost smiled; this was definitely not the worst cellmate I could have ended up with.

"Frank Castle"

_Frank _

_"I hereby sentence you to capital punishment"_

Whack!

It was not the first time I had heard the angry snap of the judge's hammer slamming into the polished mahogany, nor was it the first time I had been escorted down the mazy corridors of Ryker's island.

_"He's back, pass it on"_

Nor was it the first time I had been greeted by the frightened whispers of the residents here, fading into the fluorescent void.

_"He's back, pass it on"_

Again, they feared the storm to come. In here, I was a hurricane. There's calm in my eye, and there will be destruction around me…

_"He's back, pass it on"_

My watchdog was a blubbering mountain of a man, only a few inches shy of standing a full seven feet tall. His giant greasy stomach was barely covered by his uniform, and he was perspiring profoundly, drops of sweat running down from his shaved scalp into his wiry beard.

But I wasn't fooled. I could see the muscles on his arms, bulging under his uniform in an almost cartoonish way.

_"He's back, pass it on"_

With such a physique, he might even rival the kingpin…

"Get you'se movin' tiny man," He bellowed in a shower of spit and corrosive breath

…Though he did lack some sophistication.

I idly wondered how a greasy gorilla like, I looked at his nametag, Biggs could be allowed to be a senior guard here at Rykers. As far as I was oriented, the demands for being a guard at a maximum-security jail were somewhat steep. And this waddling sack of sweat looked suspiciously like someone who should be found on the other side of the bars. The same side that I was soon to inhabit.

With his grand intellect, I had no doubt that he would be on _somebody's_ payroll.

Living at Ryker's; Rule no. 1: If you're a common crook, this is hell. If you're an influential and/or rich crook, this place is heaven. During my last visit, I leaned that nearly half of the guards' names were written on payrolls _somewhere_ in the country, and while strolling down the concrete corridors, I even recognised some of the crooked watchdogs from my last visit. They had all survived. They had probably been warned… bastards.

It hadn't always been like this. Once, it had been a clean prison, almost free of corruption and bribery. That had all changed after a certain incident three months ago…

"Dis' be your new roomie, Punisher! Har har har!" The stink of stale beer and unbrushed teeth mercilessly assaulted my senses, and I quickly diverted my attention to my new 'roomie.'

I stood about three inches taller than him. He had an angular face, with high cheekbones and a straight nose. He might have been considered handsome, but the skin on his face looked to be stretched too tightly across his skull, giving him a sunken-in, shallow-chinned look. His body was sinewy, but like his face, it also looked shallow. As if he had once been in great shape, but had let it deteriorate from lack of training. His brown hair was neatly combed, and his deep-sitting blue-green eyes were distant. They almost looked… dead. Like my own.

As I came face-to face with him, I recognised him from the newspaper front-pages. A rare, thin smile crept upon my lips.

"Max Payne"

_Max_

When it came to meeting new people, I had never been the greatest icebreaker. As it turned out, neither was Castle. So several minutes passed by in silence. It wasn't that I didn't want to talk to him, but what do you say to a vigilante serial killer, whose criminal bodycount outscored mine?

As I laid on the ancient spring-filled torture device otherwise known as a bed, I let my mind wander. What now? The smoke had cleared, and there were no more enemies left. My life had decreased to a very singular course, and now it seemed that I had reached the bottom of the endless pit; unable to get further down, and without the stamina to get back up. I was trapped, not only physically, but also by the apathy spreading through my brain like an aggressive virus. The ever-present survivors' guilt gnawing at my soul…

Before I could get more engrossed in my deliberate torpor, a deep voice snapped me back to reality.

"Here"

Castle stood beside my bed, the stale light casting shadows on his sharp features, making him look like the skull he brandished. He held something out to me, and slowly took it.

It was a classic example of jailhouse craftsmanship, merging an everyday tooth-cleaning utensil with and everyday razorblade, making a crude, but highly efficient knife. Great for carving sculptures or killing inmates.

I studied it intensely. I could tell that he had tried this before

"How did you smuggle the razors in?" I asked.

Even though his face remained expressionless, I could tell that being asked an intelligent question pleased him, so he pulled up the sleeve on his t-shirt, showing me a small wound on his upper arm. Then he pulled at the skin, and it peeled off in a perfect razor blade-sized flap, hanging to his arm by a single string.

So he smuggled it inside in his flesh.

Efficient.

Insane, but efficient.

"Thanks"

He just nodded. He knew I was in the firing line. He knew, because he was too. Him having made such a precious artefact, and giving it to me could only mean one thing; I had an ally. I knew that would have mortal enemies by the dozens, standing in line to get an opportunity to sink their jagged claws in me. But never in my wildest imagination had I dared hope having an ally. This could mean that my chances of survival were almost bad, instead of being non-existent.

Which was a definite improvement.

_Frank_

A small envelope was pushed between the bars of our cell, and I knew from past experience, that this little treasure-box, checked, double checked and triple checked, contained the few possessions the guards had allowed to keep in our cell, small things people often made the mistake of taking for granted.

Instinctively, I grabbed the brown-wrapped package, tore it open, and smiled as a little slice of heaven floated down into my waiting palm.

Maria, Christie and Junior, smiling up at me from the faded photo-paper, eternalised in less than a second, this was now one of the only things that could put my mind to rest, if only for a time.

Things like this would in time become the rocks you cling to, trying not to drown in this cold, soulless sea of grey

Then I stumbled upon something that definitely wasn't mine. A beautiful blond woman beamed at me from the Polaroid, a wedding dress flowing down her body like a soft waterfall of white. Next to her stood someone I didn't immediately recognise, a man whose warm smile and sparkling eyes stood as a stark contrast to the cruel smirk and dead gaze that had replaced them.

"I think this belongs to you" I handed him the photo.

A strange grimace crossed his face for a second, a mix between happiness and sorrow, before reverting back to the usual bored look.

"_Lights out!_"

With loud metallic clanks, the lights gave out one-by-one, letting the darkness sweep over us in a domino-like pattern, and as the sun ended its pendulum swing across the sky, I savioured the last fleeting rays of light, unsure how long the eternity of night would be.

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Damn, the document uploader sucks. It messes my text completely up! >(

Drop a review, please.


	3. Life is good on deathrow

**Part 3:**

**Life is good on death row:**

_Max_

The sunlight that filtered into my cell the next morning kissed my face like a gentle lover, and for a moment I thought of my wife, and home. But the iron bars and stark walls quickly brought the dream to an end.

The call came out to line up for the morning meal, and the cacophony of cell doors slamming almost sounded like metallic applause and caustic cheers. Welcome to a brand new day.

Be both caught a lot of stares as we marched down the ant-line food-queue. Necks were stretched and craned as we went, everybody wanting to see the prisons' newest exhibitions. Everybody in here had a friend, brother or cousin that I killed. I knew it. And they knew it. Their eyes lusting with desire to pay me back for every broken bone I have. If looks could kill, I would be a smoking crater on the ground.

My hand tightened around my once-toothbrush, hidden snugly in my left palm. It took some sleigh of hand between Frank and me to get it past the metal-detectors, but that weapon was the only lifeline I would have in this hellhouse.

As it turned out, I didn't have to wait long until I would need my toothbrush-death bringer. Even as I was trying to force the putrid substance, in here going under the misleading term of food, down my throat, my built-in radar immediately warned me of the would-be killer walking in my direction.

Now, detective Payne, what gave away the persons intent?

Well, fact one: He's walking in my direction while trying to look like he's going anywhere but here, his eyes darting back and forth with unhealthy rapidity.

Fact two: He's young and inexperienced and, judging by the two bald-headed gorillas staring at him judgingly, trying to climb the proverbial prison ladder-of-respect.

Fact three: Aforementioned gorillas just handed him a knife.

Fact four: He's shaking badly enough to but any Parkinson-victim on this globe to shame, and his white t-shirt was drenched in sweat.

Conclusion: You are about to be killed by a pathetic little punk. I almost laughed out loud. I would if I could. I could only phantom why I had been chosen to be this little bastards' first kill. Someone obviously hadn't been doing their homework.

I didn't look up. I could hear his fearful breathing, but I didn't look up. I could smell his fear, but I didn't look up. I could feel him drawing back the knife, but I didn't look up. But the very nano-second his knife started descending my reflexes, honed to perfection by bitter need, sprung into action. I grabbed his wrist and parked my knife in his windpipe, blood splashing onto the floor with nauseating velocity. For less than a second he tried simultaneously coughing and blood and breathing oxygen before slumping to the floor.

The gorillas' eyes went as wide as saucers. They looked at each other in disbelief, looked back at me, and charged at me like two bulldozers, swatting away anything and anyone in their way. I ducked the first punch, his fist grazing my hair by inches, rammed my shoulder into his stomach and kept pushing, sending him into a nearby table. He doubled over backwards and I immediately got on top of him, my fists pounding at his pace like pistons. Someone grabbed my from behind, and before I knew what was happening I was sailing through the air. After what seemed like hours, my back impacted loudly with the very solid wall, knocking all air out of my collapsing lungs. In my double-vision I saw the goon thundering my way, his fist raised, ready to drop like a sledgehammer.

This was going to hurt.

The human locomotive was suddenly intercepted by an elbow to the face, and judging by the wet crunch his nose was pulverized.

Frank didn't waste any time. He jabbed at his throat and delivered a head butt to the already obliterated nose, making the gorilla give a very un-masculine whimper.

That's when the cavalry decided to crash the party. They marched into the battlefield like medieval warriors, nightsticks in hand, and rained stinging blows on everything and everyone, me included.

My legs gave out under me, liquid pain soaking every fibre of my already halfway ruined body.

"Alright, knock it off!"

The picture froze, all bodies stopping in their tracks, all eyes turning to the owner of the voice. The emperor had stepped down from his throne to mingle with the unclean mob, wearing a spotless suit. This guy was as streamlined and soulless as they come, immaculate haircut, sharp facial features, a moustache trimmed with surgical precision. His image was topped off with a steel-grey gaze, always focused. Meet Warden James Steele Falzon, a man whose love for discipline was only matched by his lust for power.

After Franks' spectacular escape three months ago, the former warden, along with all the surviving guards had quit the job, something about nerves, and Falzon wasted no time claiming it. Now, he ran the place like his own personal third-world state; a fact that seemed to go unnoticed by anyone outside these walls.

"Someone is here to see you, Mr. Payne. Follow me please"

Two guards hauled me into my aching legs, and as I was dragged through the fallen food-trays and aforementioned trays' content, Franks' voice shouted out a warning at me.

"Watch your back!"

_Frank_

After many years of trying to stop the phenomenon known as gang-rape, the superintendents of this prison had, in all their mighty intellect, decided that bathing every inmate on the entire cell-block at the same time was a very bad idea.

So now you could bathe whenever you liked. Thank god for the land of the free, where morality is good and double-morality is twice as good.

My body was still aching from the decisive beatings of the guards. Blue splotches were slowly materializing all over my skin, and I could tell I would be walking with a limp for the next few days. For a second, I wondered what it would be like to be a stranger to such pains instead of just registering it and stowing it away along with all the other trash in my brain. Like everything on Ryker's, the water was unforgiving, on a good day being lukewarm at best, and spraying with uncanny velocity, like the blood in those miserable Quinten Tarentino films. But it soothed nonetheless, like the hand of a gentle wife it relaxed my body and allowed me to organize my thoughts, or rather, my worries. Who wanted Max, and why? I knew full and well the troubles he usually landed himself in, and when our mystery guest had dragged Max away, my eyes nearly watered by the stench of trouble. I knew he was more than capable of taking care of himself, but being here placed us both in severe disadvantage should anything happen.

Speaking of trouble…

Over the metallic sound of cascading water drumming on the floor, a pair of shoes could be heard swiftly crossing the damp tiles, not in any way trying to conceal itself. I saw the punch coming from a mile away, and all I had to do was bend my head to the right, and the fist rammed forcefully into the wall, shattering tiles and knuckles alike. Not even bothering to look at the offender I grabbed aforementioned hand and rammed the owner attached to it into the wall, knocking him out cold.

"You'll have to excuse Larry here; apparently the guy Payne sliced today was a friend of his"

Three mooks stood in the doorway, oozing suave confidence from every pore. I immediately pegged them as mobsters, judging by their thick Brooklyn accent. Behind them was a very bribed-looking guard, humming to himself and examining the ceiling as if it was the most interesting thing he'd ever seen.

I turned around.

"Tell me why I shouldn't kill you right now"

"Easy there big fella. The boss wants to see you" One of the mooks chirped, sweat beading on his forehead.

'The boss' was Don DeZantes, a powerful former mob-boss who had been here for the better part of 20 years, building up an empire behind the bars. Nobody here drew a breath without his say-so, and those who did were prone to having 'accidents.'

Like a giant spider lurking in the middle of a web of steel bars and concrete, he was the law-behind-the-law. The true holder of power.

"This should be interesting"

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C'Mon, review people. Thanks to BLAKKSTONE for reviewing 


	4. Offerings

**Part 4:**

**Offerings**

_Max_

I was sitting in the box, the interrogation room, chained to a cheap metal table. Above me, the standard fluorescent tube buzzed its cold light downward. The standard 'mirror' was there too, on the wall, hiding God knew how many accusing pairs of eyes, glaring at me from behind its silvery sheen. The only eyes I saw were my own, staring back. I hardly recognize the face. I never realized I looked THAT menacing. No wonder I was death row. If I was someone else, I'd probably want to execute me too.

To steel door creaked open, and in stepped a sparkling pasty-white smile clad in a spotless black suit. The used car salesman stench reeked from the guy like a quart of cheap cologne, and there was something behind the icy blue eyes that told me that his personality was just as flammable. His face seemed permanently cramped in a smile so false it made my eyes ache.

"Ah, Mister Payne, I've been looking forward to meeting you. My name is Andrew Tompkinson "

He probably expected a response of some sort, but I wasn't delivering. His voice was like a sugar-coated dagger, making the hair on my neck rise and my muscles tense. His eyes didn't blink and his smile didn't waver in the following silence. After a while he continued unfazed.

"The inner circle formally wishes to express our gratitude for your part in taking down Vladimir Lem."

I snorted. "Part? I did _all_ the dirty work, remember? As far as I knew you were all dead"

He waved dismissingly "Of course, of course. Nonetheless, you have proven to be a true friend to the inner circle, and as such, we would like to repay you for services rendered."

"Hooray, what have I won, the right to wear black suits and act mysterious?"

Impossiby, his smile widened.

"Actually, we were thinking more along the lines of getting you out of here"

Now THAT caught my attention

"How?"

"As you might know, we are quite adept at pulling strings, and considering that the warden is an associate if ours, it should be fairly easy. However…"

I cringed. Here comes the catch…

"…there is one small task that we need you accomplish before we can grant you your freedom"

His voice took the 'you are my pawn' tone, and my blood warmed with anger.

"It seems that your cellmate, this…Punisher, had been causing quite a lot of trouble for one of our highest-ranking members. We need you to take him out"

He looked like he had just told me he could resurrect my family. I don't know if he's expected me to whoop with joy and lick his shoes in gratitude. Guess I disappointed him.

"Why am I not surprised?" I snarled. "Everytime I'm in some kind of trouble, you come dancing in, offering to be my hero and solve all my troubles. All I have to do is kill everyone who defies you and I'm a free man right? I've had it with being your lapdog. If you're all so happy I killed Vlad, why don't you just get me out? Why? Because some whiner wants to exploit me first. Some bastard wants to show who has the biggest dick! Who is this 'highest ranking member' anyway?"

I never raised my voice, but it felt good to let out some of the steam that had been building up pressure inside me. Tompkinsons' façade also crumbled like a deuce before a royal flush, finally relieving the world of his phony friendliness. The smile faded, exposing his true face to me. His true self.

"_Why don't you just do as your told Payne_?" Tompkinson yelled. "I offer you freedom, and you spit it right back at me! Who cares who this person is? I have the power to make you a free man, AND I have the power to let you rot here for all eternity!"

Jack Lupino's basement and the old Address unknown funhouse. Being at the receiving end of Frankie's bat and Vlad's gun. Those two places had taught me something about myself. I always had to push. When people were dangling my life in front of my eyes like some sort of prize I HAD to push. Take them to the edge. It was a dangerous gamble, especially with hot-headed brats such as this one, but I was a few years and a thousand bullets beyond caring. When people get angry they make mistakes. They trip over themselves, leaving them vulnerable to attacks. It usually warranted plenty of pain, but pain had become a second skin to me; I never felt it unless I chose to.

"So who is this member?"

Tompkinson looked like a rhino ready to charge, nostrils flaring and eyes wild. He tried to compose himself, correcting his tie with trembling hands and franticly smoothing his blonde hair, succeeding in making it more tangled than ever.

"That's none of your business, _Payne_!" He all but snarled. Looks like he was used to everything going by his head, like a spoiled brat who never grew out of it. He let out a sigh.

"Wilson Fisk"

Figures.

"The Kingpin?"

"The _entrepreneur! _You're straining my patience, Payne. I will be back in two weeks. Then we will se if you're willing to take our generous offer into consideration."

He departed with a huff of indignity. Like a guardian angel he had come down to offer me salvation at the price of blood. The serpents of the circle were venomous and they were very likely to sink their fangs into my back once I'd served their purpose.

Still, they had proved trustworthy before.

"Frank, you've got a talent for pissing off the wrong people"

_Frank_

The bad vibes in the master's dungeon hung heavily in the air, like a black curtain had been pulled over the window, blocking out all warmth and light. Angry eyes followed me as I went, fuelling my already sizable paranoia. Angry eyes hounded my every step, and had they not been on DeZantes' leach, half the prison would probably be on top of me now. What possessed creatures awaited me in the bowels of these mazes?

Old. That is the first word that comes to mind when laying eyes on what's left of the mighty DeZantes. Or ancient, even. His skin looked like crumbled paper, yellowed and calloused with age, and his stick-like limbs looked like they would break at the slightest pressure. Many had made the mistake of believing his mind was as fragile as the body. All who did were dead now. I could almost taste the serpentine manipulation streaming from him in thick waves, making my mouth dry and my knuckles white. Had the grotesque Biggs and hundreds of other prisoners not been here, he would be dead before he had time to formulate the first sentence.

No such luck

"You are the infamous Punisher, yes?" His voice had lost none of its potency, the rumbling growl resonating through the darkened cell, laced heavily with an Italian accent. I wondered how such frail lungs could harbour such a menacing voice. It was like watching a kitten roar like a lion. He was not to be underestimated.

"I have heard much about you. Most of it I did not like"

"I don't waste much time on PR"

I was rewarded with a phlegmy chuckle. Classic villain.

"Many see you as a hero. Even more see you as a lunatic. When I look at you, I see a mere man. A man who has caused me trouble."

My brain was already making slide-shows of various worst-case scenarios, and I tried formulating an escape plan for each of them. My 'knife' rested comfortable in my palm, smooth and deadly, ready to draw blood and take lives on my whim.

"It seems that you have gotten yourself involved in… some business that is not yours" He managed.

"That's what I do, get to the point"

"I see you have no patience for deceit and veiled threats. That's unfortunate, because that is the nature of my business, and if you wish to remain alive, you will play along. Now be silent."

The blade trembled eagerly in my hand. He was walking a thin line…

"I'm here to discuss your cellmate, Max Payne." He continued. "The boy he killed today happened to be my grandson. He tried to impress me by killing one of the most dangerous inmates here. Obviously, he failed at both. However, no matter how big a fool he was, he was still my grandson, and an insult like this cannot go unpaid."

Silence

"It seems you helped him in the following brawl, which does not surprise me considering your similarities. However, now that you have crossed me, I will have to kill you…"

I tensed like a bowstring, ready to propel myself away from danger…

"…IF, you should choose to reject the offer I brought you here to hear. Kill this Payne for me, and I will overlook your treason and let you live. Warn him, and I will kill you both. _Capice?_"

I couldn't fight the entire prison. They knew it, and I knew it. The masses of frenzied monsters would blood me like a tidal wave of rage, chocking me, crushing me and tearing me apart. Either he died or we both died. The blade felt heavy in my hand. I doubted I would have the strength to wield it against him.

This was the mother of all no-win situations.

"Max, you've got a talent for pissing off the wrong people"


	5. Bad news

**Part 5:**

**Bad news**

_Max_

I've often said that I have nothing to lose. I've often thought that I have nothing left. The grinning void of apathy had grown in my guts until I thought I was a hollow man, devoid of emotion, sentiment and sensation. Like an icy claw it had frayed my insides, disjointing me, making me flawed. Making me damned. You could sit for a million years, trying to piece together the shards that were once your life, until your fingers are torn to the bone and the puzzle is more impossible than ever. And then, just then, you realize; you cannot mend it. Your life will forever be broken shards on the floor of eternity. All you can do is savor the few fragments remaining, thinking back to when everything was perfect.

I had nothing to lose, I knew that. My heart beat, my lungs breathe, but I'm dead, in any way but clinical. But if I was dead, rinsed of all things even related to emotion, then why was I holding my still bloodstained knife, contemplating my only way out of this hell?

What awaited me outside the bars? And was it worth it to betray one of the only persons left who could understand me?

Justifying my actions had lost its meaning after the first hundred kills, but I had only ever killed those that had tried to kill me. I had just returned the favor. Here, I was thinking about killing an innocent for my own egoistical gains.

Scratch that, Frank and innocent are two words that will never appear in the same sentence. Uninvolved is probably better.

Insane. Psychotic. It's easy just to label him and disregard his actions as acts of lunacy. And my actions too. I once lived in a world where I would have viewed his actions, and mine, with horror and aberration. Disconnected from the rest of the world, people like him would live in their own twisted version of reality, forever distancing themselves from all normal human contact. Had I crossed this border? Did I live in a self-imposed shell of existence, or was it the rest of the world that chose to close their eyes to the horrors of the _real_ reality? When had the world reeled on its axis? Was it the night my family died. Was it the night Alex died? Winterson? Mona? The lines were blurry, a kaleidoscope of mangled bodies, bullets and pain, smudged by the endless rain.

What was one more road kill on the dark highway of my life?

I clenched my fist.

Why did it always have to come to this?

_Frank_

A life of death.

I repeated the words, letting them roll over my tongue again and again, measuring and analyzing them. One reflexive movement, pulling a trigger, thrusting a knife, a squirt of blood and another life extinguished. Killing. It had almost lost its meaning to me. To kill. To deprive of life, to slay, murder, execute. Taking a man's life. Robbing him of the one thing he truly possesses in this world. Stealing his ability to laugh, sing, play, jump, run, love.

I should probably feel guilty for all the lives I've taken.

But I don't.

Every single one of whom I killed had fully deserved it. I did my homework. I researched, analyzed, examined and studied until I was sure that they did not deserve to live. And then I made sure they didn't.

That same sense of righteousness was what kept me from murdering Max on the spot. I knew that our chances of survival in here were slim, and refusing to obey the higher powers only made them smaller.

Max was no innocent, knew this. But he was no bad guy either. He had been through the same things that I had. And reacted the same way.

A life of death.

I know the overwhelming sense of rage that overtakes your body when you are unable to help those you love. The frustration is like acid pumping through you veins, fuelling the rage, making you act on instinct rather than thought. There really are no words to describe the feeling when you lose everything. You will never know true anger or true sorrow until you do. Many people who have experienced this can tell you of an insane desire for payback. They have violent fantasies of torturing and killing those responsible, and people will say that they understand.

But when someone actually has the balls to do it, we're insane. I never said I'm not, but I'm not the living in a shell of self-deceit. They are.

How can you live a life of death?

Max was sitting in the courtyard with a vacant look in his eyes. Many eyes were on him, but no one dared approach. I sat down next to him.

"I have some bad news" I started

"Not as bad as mine"

* * *

Sorry it took so long, and sorry it isn't longer.Next chapter's almost ready, and there'll be a lot more action.

Thanks to **Actionmax** and **Sorceress** **Cassandra180** for reviewing. You guys rock!


	6. Lessons in pain

**Part 6:**

**Lessons in pain**

_Frank_

I had just signed my own death-sentence. The very nano-second I had spoken to Max, a punk had sped off like his life depended on it. And it did. Rumor had spread like flames in a pool of gasoline and soon we were surrounded by bloodthirsty thugs lusting to rend out flesh from the bone.

DeZantes' boys.

"Got your knife?" I asked

"Got it" He flipped it deftly in his hands.

We were in a corner of the courtyard, concrete wall behind us and a sea of prisoners in front.

"Let's do it!"

We charged into the sea of bodies like a tornado of blades. I gouged the eye of the first, yanked the blade free and kicked the body away from me, toppling over three others. I slashed the femoral artery of the next, and even before the blood could hit the ground the next had my blade searing through his intestines. Their warm blood cascaded on me, thick sprays of crimson straining my clothes and skin, spreading a sick heat all over my body.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Max, and he was holding his own very well. Two goons had their throats slit before they could blink, and he grabbed one of the falling bodies, using it to ward off an incoming fist. He fung it away, and using the momentum of his rotation he jammed the blade into the temple of another, and as he was crying blood, Max had already disemboweled the next.

His eyes were unblinking, completely focused on the battle, his face was frozen in an almost bored expression, as if he didn't care whether he lived or died. He moved with a grace I could never hope to match, like a ballerina on a scene, raining blows with surgical precision, as if he had all the time in the world to think up just the right way to slice, effectively disposing the all adversaries with clinical effectiveness. His dance of death showed me one thing; he was not one to be crossed. With almost complete disregard for his own safety he baffled the enemies with his reckless daring, yet it all came together in a well-calculated, bloody manner.

Ten were down in fifteen seconds. The cracked concrete beneath out feet was flooded in warm blood. The mooks backed up with fright shining out their eyes. They had not expected us to be armed. Too bad for them. We sped through the doors into the prison, knocking over some stunned bozos on the way.

Why weren't the guards here? Did DeZantes really hold so much power? I heard yelling behind us, the mooks had chosen to resume their pursuit it seemed. Max was tackled by a particularly large brute, sending them rolling, and before I could help him a muscular arm had found its way around my throat. They flew on us like vulturs on a carcass, screaming with glee. Fists and feet was all I saw, feeling my already bruised body being beaten like a bad step child. Darkness began seeping into my peripheral vision.

I knew nothing more. Except one thing.

They didn't stop.

_Max_

A bulldozer.  
That was probably the first thing that came to my mind watching Frank tango with the goons. He threw them left and right, using his tremendous strength combined with years of experience to completely obliterate his opponents. The knife in his hands was a blur, slashing and stabbing with robotic precision, leaving cruel, maiming gashes in its wake. He was used to this, I could tell. His dead eyes were ablaze with hatred, fuelling his body the kind of power no other sane man could ever comprehend. Yet for all his rage, w still stood no chance, and before long I was brutally tackled to the ground and subjected to severe skeletal manipulation, making sure I stayed.

Time to take another beating.

Strange, the prospect of pain didn't seem to frighten me anymore. Most people would crumble in the face of what was about to happen. But then again, I'm not most people. Allow me to re-evaluate my situation. I'm sitting, legs spread, in the opening of a cell, facing the door, which, if closed, would cause fifty plus pounds of metal to unite themselves with my genitals in a very unpleasant manner. Which was just what the four goons surrounding me where planning to do. They all wore the same sickening smile; like The Joker just before he blew up Gotham. Only, this wasn't a comic. No Batman was going to swing down and rescue me from certain death. There never had been, and there never will be, stuff like that belongs to people with hope. Hope and I were not on speaking terms. Like Luck. Down the hall, the goons were still taking turns kicking Frank. He laid still. Too still. The rhythmical sounds of shoes hitting flesh sounded like the prisoners' blood-soaked applause to vengeance.

Then one big mook took hold of the bars and send the cell door my way. The dull metal glared at me mercilessly.

_SLAM_

Trying to explain the pain of simultaneously having your face and privates destroyed by a freight-train of solid metal is by all accounts a waste of time. It's impossible. I've been through almost every type of pain this miserable existence had to offer, but this was defiantly ranking top-five. My teeth rattled loosely in my skull, my brain felt like it was trying to burst out, and fire was spreading from between my legs, scorching my stomach from the inside. My vision swam and everything was blurred. In the distance, I heard a mocking voice.

"Ready for Pain, Payne?" He grinned sadistically.

"You play you pay, bastard" I managed while drooling blood.

That only made him smile more, putting his blackened teeth on full display. He drew back the door and prepared to punish me again. I closed my eyes. Why couldn't they just kill me? After the second hit my entire body was numbed my flames. I didn't even feel the third. A was in another dimension of pain, my entire body feeling like one big, raw abrasion. Only the hyena-like laughter could penetrate the fog of pain. Sneering fiends playing their sadistic games, death hanging like a carrot on a string; the blissful reward. All you'll ever want but always out of reach.

The things I would do for a painkiller right now.

Amidst the muted laughing, muffled yelling could be heard. I faintly saw as Falzon marched into the scene with his praetorian guard behind him, looking furious. Not surprised, but furious.

"_I said I needed him alive…"_

There voices were distant. Like they were a million miles away

"_But the boss said…"_

A shook my head, trying to make the mists of pain and nausea dissipate. The voices were a little clearer.

"_I don't care what DeZantes said! I need Payne alive. If you don't like it, feel free to discuss it with the guards"_

The goons looked at the heavily armed guards with fright, Biggs standing like a front-figure, obviously basking in the joy of flaunting his primal need of bullying those around him.

"_You can't just do that. DeZantes specifically ordered"_

I spat out a large wad of blood. The fires had lost their sting, and now all that remained was a dull throbbing. I rose on my trembling legs, vertigo ravaging my brain. The voices were clearer now.

"This is _MY _prison, and I do whatever I _like_"

He turned to me, his steely eyes shining with frustration.

"Now follow me Mr. Payne, we have something to discuss."

He handed me three very familiar white capsules. Painkillers. I downed them instantly, savoring the sharp tang of the numbing medicine. Falzon turned towards Frank, who was lying limply on the concrete, blood seeping from nose and mouth.

"I don't need him. Biggs, take care of him"

A sadistic smile spread on his chunky cheeks. My voice constricted in my throat, vocals knotting together, forbidding me from voicing my protest.

Indeed, Falzon and I had something to _discuss_"


	7. Things get worse

**Part 7:**

**Things get worse**

_Frank_

My body was foreign and numb, my arms and legs cold with a deadened sensation. I slit my eyes open and blinked rapidly, trying to dissipate the murky haze of brown. My skull throbbed from the pounding, the echoes of a thousand avalanches rattling around inside my brain. Gritting my teeth, I slowly overcame the pains and aches, trying to clear my muddled mind. Where was I?

Feeling gradually returned to my limbs, like a river of fire coursing from my brain, coming to pool at the tips of my fingers. I tried to sit up, but a tremendous weight was holding my arms and legs down. I blinked again, trying to re-focus my vision so I could make sense of my current situation.

When my vision finally cleared, my eyes shut open wide with realization. I was lying strapped to a rough-hewn wooden table, dull splinters carving themselves into my back. I shifted my head from side to side violently, examining my new surroundings. I was laying in the center of a room, the only light coming from a collection of orange lanterns joined by an extension cord, basking the room in a dull, hellish glow. Not surprisingly, the walls and ceiling looked to be concrete, brown with dust and grime. The only door was right in front of me, the steel bars re-lining the already sturdy-looking door, killing every hope of escaping. To my left, a dingy wooden table held mountains of disorganized clutter, cables, boxes and rusty chains crammed beneath it, barely recognizable in the orange haze. The table on the other room also held certain accessories, though it would be a mistake to think it trash. Across the thick wooden surface, various picks, awls, knifes and hooks rested in an organized row. Larger hooks, saws and clamps hung over the table in tidy slots.

"This isn't good."

I tried to sit up again, but as before, I failed miserably. I lifted my head to inspect the reason I couldn't move. Leather straps thick enough to make Dr. Mengele jealous encircled my wrists and ankles, binding me to the surface of the wooden table.

Let's re-evaluate; I'm strapped to a table with various tools of torture hanging next to me, the dull metal winking at me in the dim light. Not good!

Like a caged animal I fought viciously against the unforgiving bindings, throwing all my weight at my shoulders in hope of pulling an arm free. All I managed was to pull scraps of skin off my wrists. I tried using the blood as lubricant, but the straps were like sandpaper, and I remained trapped.

Faint voices were coming from the other side of the thick door, and I redoubled my efforts to get free, hoping that I at least could get one arm out to strangle whoever opened that door. The door opened, the rusty hinges wailing like a banshee. In the doorway, a gigantic silhouette filled the doorway like an obese grim reaper. Even though his uniform and skin was dyed orange by the lanterns, I could never mistake that grotesque figure.

Biggs.

A smile was sprawled over his fat face, pushing his chunky cheeks up, almost covering his eyes. What could be seen of them glinted with eager anticipation. He was shirtless, his fat, greasy, hairy stomach gleaming with perspiration.

Behind him came the ratty man that had escorted Payne, his shifty eyes darting back and worth under his oily brown hair, anxiety dominating his narrow face.

"Well, well, lookie here" Biggs grunted "It's the big bad Puny-sher"

He oinked at his little joke, and the ratty man exploded in a fit of nervous, nasal laughter that sounded very forced.

"Shut up, Deakins!" Biggs bellowed at the ratty man. He immediately stopped, eyes alight with fright. He was deathly scared of the fat man that much was obvious.

"Falzon's given me pre-missun' t' take care o' you'se" He grinned, revealing a dark gap where he was missing a tooth.

I just kept my eyes fixed on the orange ceiling, choosing to block him out completely. I searched for a small fraction of peace with my family, trying not to imagine what the man-mountain would do to satisfy his sadistic tendencies. After a few seconds of thundering silence, he grabbed my collar and pulled my face close to his sweaty features.

"I'm talkin' to you'se!" He screamed angrily, again pebbling my face with slimy spittle.

That earned him my hatred and an iron-hard stare, as if I tried to gouge out his eyes with mine. I didn't relieve him of it for an eternity, and his is eyes began to waver.

"You just killed yourself" I growled with my best graveyard-voice."

"Why you gawd damned piece o' shit!" His ham-like fist socked me on the jaw, slamming my head into the table and sending the orange-bathed room spinning around me. Biggs' breathing was labored, as if he had accidentally fatigued himself with the outburst, and he had to grab the edge of the table to steady his huge frame. Deakins was shaking like a leaf, his skin shining with cold sweat in the unsettling glow. He looked like a cornered rat, searching for an escape from this hellish confine and finding none.

When my vision slipped back in focus, I saw Biggs standing over me, brandishing a wicked-looking pair of pliers. His eyes were completely covered by his cheeks, fat lips twisted in an excited smile. Pearls of sweat were dotted on his hairless scalp, glowing like ambers in the dull light.

I knew how these things worked. I wasn't meant to survive. It was only a matter of how much pain I had to suffer before checking out.

_Max_

"Feeling better, Mr. Payne?"

I didn't know if it was a rhetorical question, and act of politeness or sheer stupidity. I knew for certain it wasn't concern. I just had my entire body caved in, and even though I had swallowed so many painkillers that I probably wouldn't notice if somebody sawed off my legs, it still felt like all two hundred and forty-five bones in my body had been pulverized.

"Take a wild guess" I managed to squeeze out between my split lips.

Falzon remained unmoving; his face was carved in stone. He almost blended in with the immaculate surroundings of his office, sharp lines of white and grey outlined the walls and furniture. It was very spartan, not containing anything more than necessary, yet still reeking with reserved style. There were no sons, daughters or wives on the walls, smiling at him with eternalized happiness, only the monotone stencil of countless diplomas and certificates. I had only spotted one picture standing on his gigantic mahogany desk like a lone palm in the desert, and that was the familiar scene of the late senator Woden, late senator Khorkerin, and some other nameless faces standing in front of the late Woden manor. The Inner Circle.

Falzon cut to the chase, his steel-grey eyes radiating scorching cold. "We are getting you out of here now. This is getting dangerous"

"And how do you plan on accomplishing that? It isn't just a simple matter of walking out the front gate. As far as I'm informed the press has more or less laid siege to this place"

I was surprised I had been able to keep up that monologue without fainting. I felt like sleeping.

"That is all taken care of. As far as the press is concerned, we caught you trying to escape, and shot you in the back of the head, your face blown clean away. We will deliver your unrecognizable body to the proper authorities, case closed."

"I've heard that one before" My thoughts drifted back to Punchinello.

"You will be clean. We can give you a facial make-over and you'll be a free man" He folded his fingers, looking every bit the business man he was.

"Sounds like a lot of work for you. Why doesn't the Inner Circle just kill me?" I might seem paranoid, but being betrayed over and over again had taught me not to trust anyone

Not a single muscle moved on his face, the only motion being running his thumb and index-finger over his close-trimmed moustache.

"The Inner Circle doesn't work like that. We never resort to such basic solutions unless it is absolutely crucial, as was the case with Nicole Horne." His mask finally cracked, displaying the smallest glint of emotion. A thin smile. "Besides, graveyards are full of people who have tried to murder you, and I certainly have no desire to make the same mistake they did." His face morphed back to the original chiseled appearance.

"Now, Tompkinson will arrive later tonight to…"

He never managed to finish the sentence, as the heavy door to his office sprung open, spewing uniformed inmates into the stainless office. They all had weapons. Prison guard-issue weapons. Not a good sign. One tattooed mook stepped up, pointing the business-end of a 12 gauge at the heart of Falzon.

"DeZantes doesn't like being crossed" The mook yelled, the death-iron in his hands never averting its aim.

"He wants Payne dead!"

Falzon remained deadpan.

"The guards will be here any minute… He started

"Oh, you mean these guards?" The mook grinned sickly as several riot-geared prison guards came marching in, their eyes glowing with glee. They were so paid off that I could smell it, every one of them.

"We'll be waiting outside" One of the crooked guards crooned with a cruel smirk. "You guys have fun" The cacophony of heavy footsteps filed out the door, leaving the crooks, Falzon, and me…

"You won't get away with this, I'm…" the sentence on Falzon's lips remained forever unspoken as a shotgun-shell slammed into his chest, sending him reeling over his desk. I didn't miss a beat, and as soon as the shot sounded, adrenaline had me throwing myself behind the enormous desk and flipped it over, creating a make-shaft cover. I had no weapons and only one escape route that was blocked by several bloodthirsty inmates packing heat. Their brutal laughter told of my impossible situation.

"Come out here, Payne, and I'll make it nice an' clean…Or, as clean as it can be with a shotgun" Hideous laughter followed that sentence, cutting like knives into my soul. I looked around. I smiled, and for a split second I though that maybe lady luck and I were on speaking terms again. By divine intervention or standard procedure, take your pick, Falzon had a gun taped to the underside of his desk. In these everlasting seconds I saw how smart it was having it there, so he wouldn't have to fumble around with the drawers in case of something like this.

I tore it off, and just as the mook with the shotgun peeked around the corner, nine millimeters of metal greeted his head, tearing a big bloody chunk out of it.

The others reeled, and time slowed down as I let the bullets play patty-cake on their upper bodies, only one brave heart managing to get a shot off that missed sorely. Blood sprayed. Hearts stopped. They went down hard.

This was bad. This was really bad. Luck was toying with me like a sadistic cat with an injured mouse. How was I going to escape this fort Knox with every guard and prisoner on the island gunning for me? I stuffed two unused berrettas into the back of my jeans and picked up the shotgun from the blood-stained carpet. The familiarity of the weapons felt like a gift-wrapped curse. There was an army of guards and prisoners, thirty-feet concrete walls topped with barb-wire and many miles of shark-filled water standing between me and my freedom.

I stood up, and a lightening-bolt in my stomach reminded me that the painkillers were already wearing off…or that thepain was increasing

But then again, if there was something I had become good at lately, it was beating ridiculous odds.

* * *

Huge thanks to ACTIONMAX and SORCESESS CASSANDRA 180! I love you guys :D

Please review, people!  
I can't go on without 'em. They're fueling this crazy furnace inside my head!


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